


Behind bars

by daisybelle



Series: Family Business: Murder [1]
Category: Murder She Wrote, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, mentions of drug abuse, mentions of former drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybelle/pseuds/daisybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jessica visits her son Sherlock in rehab. When the head physician is found dead, their detective skills are tested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind bars

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed.

_London_

 

The lonely house looks creepy in the morning light, but Lestrade is pretty sure that even sunshine wouldn’t help much. Not for the first time he wishes for back up. Donovan certainly would have been useful in a drug dungeon. But Mycroft had requested him coming alone and the hint of raw vulnerability he had detected in the other man’s voice had been enough to follow that plea. He takes a last look at the note in his hand before he leaves his car, locking it and hoping it will still be intact when he comes back. He takes his weapon out of its holster and walks to the entrance.

 

The remains of the front door open to a large entry hall, plaster falls from the walls leaving the bricks beneath exposed. The stairwell looks pretty insecure and he hopes he doesn’t have to test its stability. He starts exploring the ground-floor, following the line of trash left behind by some former or current inhabitants. The farther he walks, the more he notices a certain smell, a smell that is way too familiar from his days at the drugs division.

 

He finally reaches a large room, the walls in the same state as the rest of the house, the windows partly barricaded. In the semi-darkness of the room he can see several mattresses covering the dirty floor. Not every mattress is occupied, but he has unfortunately enough experience to recognise the several stages of being in a drug-induced world in the occupants of the rest. He steps slowly in the room, keeping a firm grip on his weapon and tries to get a look at the junkies’ faces.

 

Most of them look back blankly, probably not even registering him. It’s only when he is met with piercing grey eyes that are surprisingly clear that he cowers down, taking a deep breath to calm the sudden fury at the man in front of him.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” He tries to keep his voice down, doesn’t want to attract the attention of some of the others.

 

“Don't call me Sherlock!”, Sherlock hisses back angrily, his eyes small slits of grey fire.

 

“Are you kidding me? What are you doing here in this bloody hole? You were clean! You were clean for 18 months!”

 

Lestrade wants to shake the man, can barely control his voice, and he registers the others in the room steering. His eyes sweep over the room, and he readjusts his grip on his weapon.

 

“It’s for a case, Lestrade.”

 

The frustrated growl out of his mouth surprises them both.

 

“No case is worth that. You are coming with me!”

 

He accompanies his declaration by grabbing Sherlock’s arm, trying to get him in an upright position, but of course Sherlock refuses to cooperate. The scuffle alerts the others even more and Lestrade is pretty sure that this is the reason why Sherlock eventually relents. He keeps a hand on him, steering him out of the house, his weapon still in his hand, but not on full alert anymore. He all but pushes Sherlock in his car, making a point of securing him with his seat belt before he slams the door.

 

When he takes his place behind the wheel he looks at the man beside him. His too large clothes are filthy and torn in several places. His dark curls, usually carefully tamed, are greasy and unkempt. Despite the stubble in his face and dirt strains on his face, Sherlock looks incredibly young, almost as young as when they first met. His granny would describe this look as ‘death warmed over’.

 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade sighs, “what were you doing here?”

 

The answering look is icy.

 

“I told you, I’m working on a case.”

 

It’s moments like this when Lestrade wonders if this is all worth it.

 

“And how good of a private detective will you be as a junkie?”

 

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock corrects, “and probably better than your whole department. And I’m not a junkie.”

 

“So, you just spend some time in a drug dungeon for fun?”

 

“As I keep telling you it was for a case.” Lestrade can almost hear Sherlock grating his teeth. “So, who told you where to find me? I bet it was Mycroft. Did he tell you to give me a nice lecture and show me the error of my ways?”

 

It’s astonishing how arrogant Sherlock still manages to sound despite his dishevelled appearance.

 

“It was Mycroft,” Lestrade confirms before he starts the car. “But I’m not here to give you a lecture.”

 

He can feel Sherlock staring at him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. The drive to Mycroft’s house is silent. Lestrade wishes there is way to persuade the man beside him to stop the drugs. He has been there before, has seen Sherlock at his lowest. Granted, it seems as if he is still a long way from that, but rehab had been horrible for both of them and he doesn’t know if he has the strength to do so again. But there is one thing he has learnt throughout the years, not only from Sherlock, but from the all the others he had met on the street. If someone doesn’t want help, there is now way to help.

 

Mycroft waits for them in front of his mansion, leaning against a black limousine. As usual he is dressed in an impeccable suit that practically screams bespoke. He holds a black umbrella in his hand, although there is no cloud to be seen. Maybe the elder Holmes likes to be prepared for every eventuality; maybe he has learnt this from taking care of his brother. Lestrade really doesn’t envy Mycroft; Sherlock is difficult at the best of times. But now Lestrade is reminded of a sullen teenager when Sherlock climbs out of the car to confront his brother.

 

“So, what’s the verdict?”

 

Mycroft sighs the long suffering sigh of someone who explains a very simple concept to a not very bright child.

 

“First we’ll check you in at Norwood’s and then you are going to spend the summer in Cabot Cove.”

 

“You can’t force me, Mycroft,” declares Sherlock. Lestrade almost expects him to stomp with his foot.

 

“Mother wants to make sure you are alright.”

 

“You involved mother?!” Sherlock seems outraged, but Mycroft only raises one eyebrow.

 

For one second Lestrade thinks that Sherlock actually will hit his brother but then his posture deflates.

 

“Fine.”

 

With a nasty look at his brother he climbs in the limousine.

 

Mycroft now turns his attention to Lestrade.

 

“Thank you for your help, detective inspector. Don’t worry; he will be back as new.”

 

Somehow Lestrade doesn’t find this as encouraging as it probably was meant to be.

 

* * *

 

 

_Cabot Cove_

 

“Aunt Jess?”

 

Jessica Holmes almost gives into the temptation to knock her head against the table. This is the first time in days that she has some time for herself and could work on her book, but unfortunately her nephew Grady has always had some pretty lousy timing. Before she can answer his call; her doorbell rings. Apparently Grady is not the only one with bad timing.

 

“I’m coming,” she calls in direction of the door, pushing the pages covered in typewriter writing together in an old-fashioned folder that has the initials of her maiden name JBF stamped in the middle of it. The folder had been a present from her late husband Frank for their engagement.

 

The doorbell rings again and she calls out again.

 

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.”

 

She arrives at the door when Grady has already opened it, moving aside to let the visitor in. When he sees who it is, he disappears again.

 

“Jim, what a pleasant surprise!”, she greets him, taking in the changes since she last saw him. James Moriarty had been a colleague of her, a rival at the University of Bristol for the post of retiring Prof. Doyle. Initially she had been given the post, but then she had become pregnant and decided she preferred to stay at home. Despite this they kept in contact, discussing mathematical problems via letter or visits. Although the latter were pretty infrequent.

 

“Did I hear typewriting, Jessica?,” Moriarty asks, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Please tell me that you are writing a follow-up on your ‘Dynamics of combustion’? I have to insist to be your proof-reader.”

 

That is exactly what she wanted to avoid. Her writing is not exactly a secret, but she has kept it mostly to herself.

 

“I have to disappoint you, Jim. I’m not writing another book on mathematics.” She feels her cheeks heating. “It’s a crime novel. Nothing important, just something to spend my time since Frank …” She doesn’t need to finish the sentence, Jim is already nodding understandingly.

 

“Of course, I understand. Frank … We had not much in common, but I know how much he meant to you.”

 

Jim takes her hand, squeezes it in comfort. She manages a small smile, thankful for Jim’s honesty. She knows that both men were quite the opposites of each other. Jim with his ambition and logical mind and Frank with his loving heart. Jessica shakes her head a bit to drive the thoughts of her husband away. Frank had only passed away last year and she still isn’t used to him not being near her after more than 40 years of marriage.

 

She realises that Jim is still holding her hand and she tries another smile, a little unsettled by his searching look. From experience she knows that she won’t get anything else written today, but a discussion about the binomial theorem, one of Jim’s specialties, is probably exactly what she needs.

 

“Do you want some tea? I have some fresh scones.”

 

Before Jim can even answer her invitation, the telephone rings.

 

“Oh, that’s probably for me, I’m expecting a call from the office,” Grady calls out from her living room, already answering the phone. Jim follows her to the kitchen when Grady blocks her way.

 

“Aunt Jess?” She looks to her nephew who holds the receiver out to her. “It’s Mycroft. Something about Sherlock.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Norwood_

 

Mycroft watches with morbid curiosity the needle disappearing in the pale flesh of his brother’s arm, the blood drawn out of it a stark contrast. Doctor Turner’s hands are steady and confident as she changes the body of the syringe, takes out the needle of the arm and stops the bleeding with a small band aid. With practised routine she labels the tubes, barely acknowledging her patient or him. It’s a good act, Mycroft has to credit her for that, but nevertheless it’s an act. He has seen the recognition and even worse the self-satisfied short smirk, as if she had expected Sherlock to be back some day.

 

It also shows in the way she controls his luggage, more in depth than the first time when Sherlock had been here, but she still misses the three sealed compartments. Mycroft is relieved by the appearing of small lines around Sherlock’s eyes, showing for a short moment his amusement at her failure. His brother had been too still for the entire time, too brooding. And he still is much too helpful, allowing himself to be patted down, emptying his pockets.

 

Dr Turner checks Sherlock’s mobile before she hands it back and is obviously disappointed when the small black case reveals just a magnifying glass. She simply shoves the clothes and toiletries back in Sherlock’s suitcase, and her tone is harsh as she orders them out of the room. “We are finished here; Nurse Taylor will tell you which room is yours. Later we will discuss the results of your blood test.” They both stand up, more than ready to go, but before they reach the door it flies open and another doctor comes into the room.

 

It takes Mycroft a moment, but then he recognises Dr Irene Matthews, the head physician of the clinic. She is obviously startled by their presence in the room and it takes her a moment to regain her composure, but she can’t suppress the impatient foot tapping as they make their way out. Apparently the closing of the door is enough of a signal to Dr Matthews to give up her calm. They can hear her very clearly through the door: “What the hell were you thinking undermining my direction’s in this way? You are only in charge of admitting patients, nothing else? Don’t think I don’t know that you are after my job.”

 

Mycroft hates such outbursts on principle, because usually basic human emotions make his life so much more complicated, but this time it seems useful. Sherlock has drawn the same conclusion, but unfortunately they are found by Nurse Taylor and led away from the screaming match behind the door. He has to leave soon afterwards, having already missed most of the morning and the Norwegian elections around the corner. With a wary glance he leaves his brother at Norwood.

 

* * *

 

  

The cab slowly drives on the grounds of the clinic and in the twilight of a grey winter day Jessica takes in the buildings and the park. It hasn’t changed much since she had been here the last time; it is still as gloomy as it had been 18 months ago. The cab stopped in front of the main building behind a delivery van. She knows that this overbearing mass of stone that looks absolutely unwelcoming with his conglomerate of additions and seemingly ill-fitting changes contains the admission part of the clinic. Patients stay here until they recovered from the worst of withdrawal. The bars in front of the windows don’t help the impression of a prison and even the wine trying to find its way up the walls can’t lighten the sombre aura.

 

It is a perfect mirror of Jessica’s mood. Since the phone call she is in a constant state of worry and anger. Jim had driven her to the station and in the few seconds in which her thoughts don’t evolve around Sherlock she wonders if she had thanked him. God, she had hoped so much that this was behind them. The drugs, the desperation. Sherlock had promised. But here they are again.

 

With a heavy heart she gets out of the cab, paying the driver and using the few steps to the main door for a few deep breaths. The driver of the delivery van steps out and Jessica hastens up the stairs to help him with the door. A thankful nod before the driver changes the weight slightly and Jessica can hear the faint clink of glass. When the delivery driver is safely outside she enters the house, the welcoming desk also reminding her more of a prison than a clinic.

 

“Oh, Mrs Holmes. Welcome back to Norwood, although I wished we had met under different circumstances.”

 

It takes Jessica a moment but then she recognises the small woman heading towards her. Amanda Debs, officially only second in command, but 18 months ago the head of the clinic had been only weeks away from retirement and barely any interest in the daily workings of his clinic.

 

“Ms Debs, I see nothing has changed.”

 

“No, unfortunately not, although Mr Miller is no longer here. He took his retirement about two months after Sherlock left.”

 

“And now you are the one in charge?”

 

“Yes, at the moment. But the Board has already announced that they are sending someone new.”

 

“And thankfully this time it will be someone who doesn’t just wait for his retirement. They say the new director is an ambitious man who wants to make Norwood the best clinic in England. Maybe the death of the poor boy was a wake-up call for them.”

 

The explanation is delivered by one of the security guards that had approached them. He turns to Jessica to introduce himself.

 

“Hello Mrs Holmes, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Martin Dimmock, Head of security here at Norwood. Unfortunately I have to search your purse and coat pockets. Lindsay will pat you down if this is alright with you.”

 

“Oh, that’s okay; you just have to do your job.”

 

She hands over her purse and her coat, obligingly lifting her arms. Ms Debs excuses herself after a short moment, and Jessica starts filling out the paperwork that Mr Dimmock provides. Afterwards she is finally led to Sherlock’s room at the far end of the hall.

 

With a ‘thank you’ to Mr Dimmock she opens the door and steps into the room. Upon the sound, her son looks up and she can see a flicker of emotion flying over his face. She recognises anger and distaste, but also embarrassment. For a moment they just look at each other. Jessica looks over her him, searching for signs of his drug abuse, but he looks remarkably like he did the last time she had seen him, two months ago.

 

“Sherlock, what happened?”

 

It comes out more accusatory than she meant to and it’s obvious that he is reluctant to answer her. So she crosses the room to the armchairs in front of the window, and sits down in the one opposite to him. She lays a hand on his arm, strangely relieved at the feeling of warmth beneath her palm. Up close she can see that his eyes are clear, he is pale but not greyish. His skin looks translucent but doesn’t have the papery quality it had 18 months ago. Of course, she is not a doctor, but whatever has happened, hasn’t taken place long enough to leave visible clues.

 

“Please, Sherlock, what has happened?”

 

She looks into his eyes that are so much like his father’s and waits. Sherlock has never bothered hiding his emotions in front of her and she is relieved that he still doesn’t. She can pinpoint the exact moment he decides to speak.

 

“Victor Trevor is dead.”

 

Whatever she expected this isn’t it. Victor Trevor had been a friend or maybe more of Sherlock’s whom he met in Cambridge. Both loners they had met when Victor’s dog had bitten Sherlock and Victor had felt guilty enough to inquire after Sherlock’s health. Afterwards they had been inseparable for the next months until suddenly they stopped meeting each other. Sherlock had never told her what had happened and after a while she had given up asking about him. She thought that this was well in the past. Apparently not.

 

“I didn’t know you were still in contact,” she inquires carefully.

 

“We shared some acquaintances.”

 

“So why is Victor Trevor’s death the reason for you being here?”

 

Clearly careful won’t work.

 

“He died here, here in Norwood.”

 

“Oh Sherlock, please tell me you didn’t just take the drugs to investigate his death?”

 

Clear grey eyes find hers and she knows that she has found one of the reasons but there is more.

 

Before she can question him more, they are interrupted by the sound of an alarm blaring through the hall and the rooms. And the automatic lock in the door.

  

* * *

 

 

Jessica sighs in relief when the door is finally released. The alarm had been silenced some minutes ago, but they had been still locked in Sherlock’s room and she doesn’t like the feeling of not knowing what happens while being locked in. The door is opened and Jessica recognises Ms Debs who is accompanied by Mr Dimmock, the security guard.

 

“Hello Sherlock, Mrs Holmes, sorry for the alarm. It is just standard procedure,” Mr Dimmock explains. Clearly he aims for a calming effect and hasn’t done this for the first time this evening.

 

“What has happened?” Jessica asks.

 

“Nothing to worry about,” is the answer of Mr Dimmock.

 

“Do you frequently have any alarms that nobody should worry about but results in people being locked in?”

 

Jessica has wondered the same thing but her inquiry would probably have been politer.

 

“No, of course not. That was for your own safety.”

 

Ms Debs’ answer definitely hasn’t the intended calming effect.

 

“So there is something to worry about.”

 

With a short look to Ms Debs the security guard explains calmly. “We’ve found the body of Dr Matthews locked in her office after one of the nurses heard a fight. It seems that she was murdered.”

 

Jessica doesn’t need to see her son’s face to recognise the interest. A locked-room-murder is definitely something that would catch his interest. And yes, he is already on his way, halfway through the door.

 

“Where do you think you are going?” Ms Debs asks sharply.

 

“To the crime scene. I hope nobody touched anything.” Sherlock attempts to sidestep her, but is blocked.

 

“No, you are going into the community room. With a murderer running loose I want all people in one place where I can keep an eye on them. We wait for the police. Sergeant Barnes should be here any minute.”

 

“Listen, you need my expertise. I’m better than the police and some local sergeant will certainly botch this case.”

 

“You are a drug addict with not enough brain to stay away from the drugs and you think we will let you in the vicinity of the murder. Don’t be stupid.”

 

Jessica takes a step forward to lay a calming hand on Sherlock’s arm but she knows she is too late. The excitement over the murder is already swept away by a cold calculating look.

 

“You are an ambitious woman that is trapped in a position you feel you’ve outgrown. You would change the clinic but unfortunately you have to keep this job to care for your sick moth … no, excuse me, for your sick father. You’ve grown bitter that every time a new head is needed, the possibility of your promotion is denied. You were almost late this morning, troubles with your car, I would guess, on oil leak? You prefer to write your notes and reports with a fountain pen and you …”

 

Whatever Sherlock still wants to reveal about Ms Debs is cut short by the ringing of Mr Dimmock’s mobile. They all listen in silence to the short one-sided conversation, but the sequence of ‘yes’ and ‘I understand’ gives no clues about the content. As soon as he rings off he turns to Ms Debs with a speculating glance.

 

“That was Sergeant Barnes. Apparently there was an accident on the Hillborough Drive and he can’t come through to us. He says it might take some hours.”

 

“Hours,” exclaims Ms Debs, “how can it take hours. We need him here. He doesn’t need to waste time on some accident.”

 

“No, you misunderstood. A tank lorry was involved in the accident and now part of the road and the wood are on fire, the road is blocked. He can’t come to us. So maybe we could let Sherlock have a look at the crime scene. I mean, what can it hurt. And remember the last time he was here this inspector from Scotland Yard always brought him some files to occupy himself with. The DI told me that Sherlock solved some cases for them. I will go with him, supervise that he follows police procedures.”

 

“How do you know police procedures?” Ms Debs is clearly not happy with where the conversation is going, but doesn’t seem to find the right argument.

 

“My father was a police officer. I always thought I would follow his footsteps, but it didn’t work out.”

 

They all wait for her decision. Jessica hopes Ms Debs will be reasonable, because she is sure Sherlock will find a way to look into this murder. She tries to project calm and confidence, the thought of having a murderer somewhere on the grounds doesn’t sound too good to her.

 

“Okay, he can have a look, but he doesn’t touch anything. You are responsible for him,” Ms Debs finally relents. “You, Mrs Holmes, you are coming with me. I don’t want too many people running around on my floors.”

 

Jessica follows Ms Debs out of the door, but Sherlock stops her.

 

“Mom, why don’t you talk to the other people in the community room? Maybe they know something.”

 

Why is he asking her? Sherlock seldom accepts help, much less asks for it.

 

“Why me? I don’t have your deductions skills.”

 

“Yes, but people like talking to you.” He smiles a little and she is reminded of the small boy who sat in her kitchen and told her everything about his chemistry experiment. She nods once and Sherlock smiles in return before he follows Mr Dimmock down the hall.

 

* * *

 

  

The office of Dr Matthews is very neat. A large medicine cupboard with one door open and several file cabinets are lined along the walls, a large desk is placed almost in the middle of the room, a laptop on it with an extra screen and an external keyboard. Dr Matthews’ chair is neatly shoved under the table, the two guest seats in front of the desk moved into each other by Dr Matthews’ body. Some papers, a paperweight and pens are lying on the floor, obviously having fallen down from the desk during the struggle.

 

Sherlock takes pictures from every angle with his mobile, crouches down to study the syringe that lies next to the body. He makes several close-up shots from the doctor’s wound in her arm. Carefully he opens her eyelids one by one, studying the pupils before he takes more photos.

 

“Were you there when the body was found?” he asks Mr Dimmock who stands silently by the door and watches him.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Tell me what happened.” Sherlock takes a few steps away from the desk, trying to see the whole crime scene.

 

“One of the nurses, Nurse Edwards, came to me. She said she heard some typing from the office of the doctor and she wanted to ask the doctor if everything was alright, because it was very unusual for Dr Matthews to still be at her office at this time of the evening. But the door was locked and when she knocked at the door she could hear a struggle and got scared. Then she went looking for me.”

 

“How could she hear the typing through the closed door?”

 

“Dr Matthews was quite aggressive to her keyboard. I think this is her third or fourth one, since I’ve been working here.”

 

Sherlock steps closer to the desk, examines the keyboard and sees the signs of abuse on some of the keys. He makes a mental note to experiment with keyboard pressure later, before he returns his attention to the case at hand. Once again he crouches down to take a closer look at the body and the syringe.

 

“Can I borrow your flashlight?”

 

Mr Dimmock hands it over and Sherlock illuminates the syringe.

 

“Would you mind me taking finger prints of the syringe?”

 

He usually wouldn’t ask but Mr Dimmock had been very helpful so far and he has promised that nothing would be touched.

 

“You can’t touch anything from the crime scene. You have to wait for the police.”

 

“It is obvious that the syringe is the murder weapon. And I can see fingerprints on the syringe. So we could give the police a head start,” he argues. He turns around a bit to watch Mr Dimmock out of the corner of his eye and he is sure that his resolve is crumbling.

 

“You have worked as police officer but you didn’t like the department you were in, so you quit. But technically you are qualified to handle this crime scene.”

 

“What about the integrity of the crime scene?” Mr Dimmock swallows.

 

“We have plenty of photographs of the crime scene. We can even leave a syringe in exact the same space, so that Sergeant Barnes will see the same scene as we did. But we will already have some results; maybe we can already find the murderer. There are fingerprints of everybody in the house, aren’t there?”

 

Sherlock tries his best ‘I’m helpful’-smile and Mr Dimmock sighs. Not waiting for a verbal confirmation Sherlock walks to the open door of the medicine cupboard and takes out a syringe to replace the murder weapon.

 

After pocketing the syringe he turns to Mr Dimmock.

 

“So is there any place I could use as lab.”

  

* * *

 

Jessica is led into the community room. Since Sherlock’s room is one of the last on the floor the room is already quite crowded. The patients and some of their visitors are scattered in little groups, the staff mostly stands at the doors and watches out for the patients. Jessica lingers at the door, unsure how to proceed. But the decision is taken out of her hand when Ms Debs announces her.

 

“This is Mrs Holmes. Since it will obviously take a while until the police is here, Mr Dimmock has appointed her son to help with the investigation. And her son has appointed her to help. So please answer any questions she might have.”

 

Jessica could have done without the undertone, but at least it gives her a reason to ask around. She decides to start with Dr Turner, hoping that the doctor would cooperate and so give a good example to the others. Also she hopes to learn more about the late Dr Matthews.

 

“So, are you some kind of private detective or why are you helping the investigation?” 

 

“Actually, my son is the private detective. I’m just helping out. Wrong time and place,” Jessica explains. “So can you tell me something about Dr Matthews?”

 

Dr Turner looks at her searchingly before she answers.

 

“Dr Matthews was an arrogant bitch that thought just because she was the head physician of this god forsaken place she is the only one to know how to treat patients. I have done my years in clinics like that, I know how to treat addicts and I won’t coddle them.”

 

The hostility is obvious, apparently Dr Tuner not only doesn’t like to coddle patients, but is also not a fan of ‘not speaking ill of the dead’.

 

“I guess you had some arguments with her?”

 

“Oh, yes, we fought a lot. In fact, we had an argument today.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“She stormed into my office, demanded that I justify my course of action with some of the patients. She didn’t agree with me as usual, but she was very alive when she left my office.”

 

“Was there something special about this argument?”

 

“No, not really. We just had a few patients who suffered through some severe withdrawal symptoms and asked for a higher level of methadone. But they already were on the highest level possible, so I hadn’t given them any additional dosages. I believe that they have to live through some of the pain so that they will remember and not come back. That happens much too often. Just look at your son.”

 

Jessica ignores the jab against Sherlock and continues with her questions. She is not entirely sure what Sherlock wants as answers from her, but she can give it her best shot.

 

“What else can you tell me about the doctor?”

 

“Well, I’m not the only one who didn’t get along with her, just ask Nurse Stamm. They were arguing the whole time. And she has the key to Doctor Matthews’ office.”

 

Jessica makes a note of the name.

 

“Is this usual?”

 

“No, not usual per se, but also not that unusual. See, nobody has the key to my office, but Dr Matthews loved her office hours, so she needed someone to do her work outside those hours. And she chose Stamm. I don’t know what Stamm got out of it, but I know that in the end they could barely stand each other. So, will this be all?”

 

The abrupt question is a bit disconcerting but Jessica nevertheless agrees.

 

“Yes, thank you, you were a great help.”

 

* * *

 

For a lack of more obvious options Jessica decides to follow Dr Turner’s advice and heads to Nurse Stamm. Her approach is delayed by another newcomer. The delivery driver that she had met upon her arrival and her cab driver had returned, the accident with the lorry also having blocked their departure since there is only one road to and from Norwood. Before she directs Nurse Stamm to a silent corner of the room, Jessica notices that it’s Mrs Debs who steers the delivery driver to a separate table, both of them apparently very comfortable with each other.

 

“Nurse Stamm, is it true that you and Dr Matthews didn’t get along?”

 

She looks in the face of the young red-haired nurse. Her freckles stand out against the paleness of her skin and she swallows heavily before she answers.

 

“No, we didn’t. She would never believe me when I told her things about the patients, in the end it seemed as if we couldn’t agree on any way how to treat a patient.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Well, for some time it seemed as if the methadone wasn’t working as well as before. Dr Matthews had to raise the dosage several times for some patients before we could notice any effect. And I thought it was a dangerous path, and then poor Mr Trevor died.”

 

“How did he die?”

 

Jessica is startled by Sherlock’s question, not having noticed his approach. The nurse doesn’t fare better and Sherlock repeats the question impatiently before she hesitatingly answers.

 

“I’m not sure…,” her voice trails off.

 

“But you have a suspicion?”, he inquires.

 

“I think he OD’d on methadone.” Her answer is almost a whisper.

 

“You think? Was there no autopsy?”

 

“No. He had no immediate family and Sergeant Barnes wasn’t interested in the death of another junkie. His words, not mine,” she hastily adds. “Ms Debs agreed and nothing was done about him. But I heard that the board wanted to send a new director, someone who is known to investigate things. ”

 

Sherlock turns abruptly, striding through the room to the table with Ms Debs where Mr Dimmock had replaced the delivery man. Jessica hurries after him.

 

“I need to analyse the methadone in Dr Matthews’ pharmacy.”

 

“No way, you are an addict; I won’t let you near any pharmaceutical drugs.” Ms Debs vetoes Sherlock’s demand immediately.

 

“Sherlock, what about the finger prints?”

 

It is obvious to Jessica that Mr Dimmock tries to distract Sherlock, but Jessica knows her son too well to believe for one second this will work. But at least Sherlock is willing to indulge the security guard for the moment. He looks at him for a moment before he asks for Dr Matthews’ fingerprint card.

 

“Why?”

 

“To exclude her prints from the ones on the murder weapon.” It’s Mr Dimmock that delivers the explanation.

 

“They are in my office.”

 

Sherlock, Mr Dimmock and Jessica follow Ms Debs out of the community room into her office. She walks straight to one of the file cabinets and unlocks it. She takes out a file, opens it and hands Sherlock a card. Sherlock opens a file on his mobile; and he and Mr. Dimmock carefully exam the paper to the digital picture.

 

“They are not the same,” announces Mr Dimmock after a moment.

 

“No, they are not,” confirms Sherlock and looks at Ms Debs. “I really need to analyse the methadone.”

 

“I’ve already told you …,” starts Ms Debs but Sherlock interrupts her.

 

“I believe someone tampered with the methadone and Dr Matthews was murdered because of it.”

 

“How can you say that?”

 

Jessica takes this as her cue.

 

“Both Dr Turner and Nurse Stamm have told me that there were problems with the methadone dosage and apparently one patient already died because of this. Do you really want to risk the life of more patients?”

 

Ms Debs looks insecure at her and then at Sherlock. She opens her mouth and closes it again.

 

“They are making a compelling argument, Ms Debs, “ Mr Dimmock joins the discussion. “I will watch over him when he analyses the drugs. We can’t risk that our pharmacy doesn’t contain what we think it does.”

 

Ms Debs exchange a long look with Mr Dimmock before she relents.

 

“Well, if you must. Get Dr Turner to hand them to you.”

 

Mr Dimmock turns to leave, but Sherlock stops him for another question to Ms Debs.

 

“Just one more question: who else has access to the medicine cupboard in Dr Matthews’ office?”

 

“Well, all medicine cupboards have the same key, so technically Dr Turner, Nurse Stamm, and I, but Dr Turner doesn’t have the key to Dr Matthews’ office.”

 

“Can I see Nurse Stamm’s fingerprints?”

 

Ms Debs opens another cabinet and pulls out a file. She opens it as well, but this time she doesn’t hand out a fingerprint card. She shuffles several times through the file before she opens all contents on the table.

 

“The fingerprint card is not here,” she finally declares.

 

“Interesting,” is all that Sherlock says.

 

* * *

 

  

“Here, have some tea. It’s awful but it’s better than nothing.”

 

“Thank you.” Jessica smiles gratefully at Mr Dimmock in front of her, looking across the table where Sherlock sits in his usual thinking pose, eyes closed, hands steepled in front of his mouth. Some of the methadone had indeed been diluted; the bottles had been marked with a little red dot. She can’t help but think about poor Victor. He had probably received some of the diluted methadone and instead of another dosage of the diluted medication somebody had given him the un-diluted version.

 

Sighing inwardly she takes a sip from her tea. It is indeed awful but before she can remark on it, the room suddenly goes dark.

 

The voice of Mr. Dimmock sounds through the darkness and a moment later a flash light is on. It’s not enough to illuminate the room; Jessica can just make out a handful of faces as the light dances over them.

 

“Please stay calm and where you are. We have a generator down here; I will try to get it started.”

 

“What about the light? Can you leave the light?,” somebody out of the darkness asks.

 

“Unfortunately no, I need it to find my way to the generator. But if you have your mobiles use them as light source for the moment. Please stay calm; this will only take a few minutes.”

 

Mr Dimmock leaves and despite several people holding out there mobile phones the room is mostly pitch dark. She hears Sherlock murmuring next to her.

 

“He is not here.”

 

“Who is not here, Sherlock?”

 

She senses more than she sees Sherlock moving and she tries to follow him through the mass of bodies. Thankfully she catches a bit of his shirt so she only has to stumble behind him. They make it through the room to the door and the hall is at least somewhat more illuminated by the emergency signs on the walls. Sherlock looks around searchingly.

 

“Sherlock, what is it?”

 

Instead of an answer he runs to an office at the end of the hall. The door is slightly ajar and Sherlock simply pushes it open. The light from the hall doesn’t reach into the room and in the first moment all that Jessica can see is black. It’s the moment when the light comes back on and she has to blink against the sudden brightness. It takes her a second to notice that Sherlock has moved beside to her. But when her gaze follows his way she notices that he is kneeling next to a very still body on the floor. It’s the delivery man.

 

“He is dead,” Sherlock pronounces after checking his pulse. “It seems he was also murdered with a syringe.”

 

* * *

 

  

“So what you are doing?”

 

Sherlock looks up from where he is kneeling next to the body of the delivery man – Mr Gates as Ms Debs had explained – to where Mr Dimmock is standing next to the door. He is not quite sure what to think of this man, most people he encounters tend not to be this helpful.

 

“Just comparing the injection wounds,” he answers lightly.

 

“They’ve been both killed with an injection. Poison?”

 

“Not likely, probably another methadone OD, it’s readily available here.”

 

“So someone just walks around and kills people with methadone. You say we have a serial killer,” Mr Dimmock’s voice is laced with horror and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

“Of course not. But the murder of the delivery man had to look the same as Dr Matthews’ death and that doesn’t leave a lot of options. “

 

“Wait, are you saying that we have two killers?”

 

“I can say that Dr Matthews and Mr Gates were indeed not killed by the same person.”

 

“How?”

 

“Look at the injection wounds.” Sherlock points to the mark on the skin of Mr Gates and Dimmock crouches down next to him. “There are several attempts at getting the needle in the arm and the veins. And it couldn’t be the struggle because he was already knocked out by the vase. So this is the work of someone who doesn’t know his way with needles.”

 

“That isn’t really helpful,” remarks Dimmock.

 

“But it is. The medical staff knows her way around needles; most of the junkies know how to find a vein in a matter of seconds. That excludes a lot of people. And the fact that it’s likely that only someone who knew the guy would kill him, because why would he follow a stranger in a dark room, gives us a neat portfolio of suspects.”

 

“But what about Dr Matthews? You said she was killed by someone else?”

 

“Ah yes, look.” He opens the file storage of his phone and enlarges the photo of the doctor’s injection wound before he hands it to Dimmock. “Here, look at the wound. It was just one try, readily hit the mark and killed the good doctor. It’s unlikely someone gets worse with each attempt and that is the work of someone who knows his way around needles and blood.”

 

Dimmock studies the picture carefully and hands the mobile back.

 

“I see what you mean. But how can we have two killers?”

 

“I have an idea about that. May I see Dr Matthews’ body again?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Sherlock leaves the room and waits impatiently until Dimmock has locked the door behind them.

 

* * *

 

  

Jessica sees the delighted twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes when he enters the community room, Mr Dimmock following him close behind. He lays a file on the table and she can’t help but smile as he then dramatically steps into the middle of the room, having witnessed this in the little boy who had written a new piece for the violin and played it for his proud parents and sometimes some of their friends. Now the formal suit is missing (the child’s version had been a present from his grand-mère), but nevertheless the people in the room fall silent when they see him standing there.

 

“So, have you found something interesting?” It’s Ms Debs that asks.

 

“Indeed I have.”

 

“So, who killed the doctor and Mr Gates?”

 

“Well, you could say the doctor killed the doctor. And somebody else killed the unfortunate Mr Gates.” Oh yes, her son loves to be dramatic.

 

“What do you mean?” Ms Debs asks exasperated.

 

“Doctor Matthews committed suicide. Apparently she had been selling the methadone to the grey market, keeping only a diluted version in her pharmacy. People began noticing that the patients needed higher dosages of the methadone than usual and after the death of Victor Trevor the board started asking questions too and wanted to send a new director to investigate. She panicked and committed suicide.”

 

“But I heard a struggle,” one of the nurses calls in the room.

 

“Probably her breaking down, hitting herself at the table.”

 

“But there is no suicide note,” this is Ms Debs.

 

“I believe there is. You said you heart typing before the struggle?” He addresses the nurse that had spoken.

 

“Yes.” The nurse steps forward.

 

“So, she was typing her suicide note, when you arrived.”

 

“But we didn’t find a suicide note. And what about the fingerprints on the syringe? They were not from the doctor,” Ms Debs exclaims.

 

“I’m pretty sure that Dr Matthews wasn’t working alone on the methadone deal. And I believe she named the other person in this scheme in her suicide note, that’s why said other person let the note disappear.”

 

“Then who is the other person?”

 

“Well, I’m getting there. Dr Turner, I believe all orders of methadone have to be co-signed? By you?”

 

“By me or the head of the clinic,” Dr Turner confirms.

 

“Interesting, isn’t it,” Sherlock muses.

 

“So are you saying that Dr Turner is responsible?”

 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Sherlock shakes his head and starts counting of his fingers. “We know this person has likely not a medical degree. We know that this person has the clearance to co-sign the orders and of course access to the employees’ files.”

 

Suddenly it hits Jessica and she murmurs. “Of course, the fingerprints are false.”

 

Sherlock smiles in her direction and picks up the file he left on the table.

 

“They are indeed false. Although there is Dr Turner’s signature confirming their authenticity.” He looks up from the file and walks back in the middle of the room. “Just out of curiosity, Ms Debs, – did you do it for the money or for revenge or was it a mix of both?”

 

“You just said that Dr Turner’s signature was under the fingerprints. Why are you suspecting me?” Ms Debs bristles.

 

“Because I know how Dr Turner’s needle injections look like and they look nothing like those on Mr Gates. And I’m certain an experienced graphologist can prove that this signature is faked. Although for me the yellowing of the paper is proof enough. See the difference between the rest of her file and the fingerprint card?”

 

Sherlock takes two sheets of paper out of the file and pins the rest of the file under his arm. He holds out both pieces of paper and it is obvious from afar that the fingerprint card is much whiter than the other paper.

 

“You were the one working with Dr Matthews on the scheme and Mr Gates was your contact to your customer. I bet he also panicked when he realised there would be an investigation. So you lured him out of the room, and tried to let his murder look like the murder of Dr Matthews. Only you are not used to putting a needle into another person’s arm, so it took you several attempts to hit the vein.”

 

Ms Debs stares at him and at the papers in his hand. Then she starts speaking.

 

“I should have been the director of this place all the time. I did all the work, but instead it became a retirement place for some wrecked doctors. So I took what I deserved. Matthews was weak. Since this boy died, she wouldn’t want to dilute the methadone anymore. And you were right; Gates was panicking, so I had to stop him. They were so weak, so fucking weak.”

 

The room watches in silence as Mr Dimmock steps forward to Ms Debs, takes out his handcuffs and arrests her.

  

* * *

 

 

Much later, in the early hours of the next morning, while the police is still cataloguing the crime scenes and questions everybody in the house, Sherlock slips in Ms Debs’ office. Contemplating her office carefully, he walks to her desk and looks through her drawers. The secret compartment in the third drawer is carefully concealed for unassuming eyes, but it takes Sherlock only seconds to find the opening mechanism.

 

A small stash of paper spills out and he fishes out one of the messages. It’s an order for 20 vials of methadone, at first glance printed by a standard printer on standard paper. What catches Sherlock’s attention is the signature underneath. It’s a simple drawing of a man hanging at the gallows.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Main parts of the case are based on episode 2.09 ("Jessica behind bars") from Murder She Wrote.
> 
> Regarding the methadone: I've just read the Wikipedia article, so please forgive me any inaccuracies.
> 
> In case you are wondering: Yes, John will appear in the next episode.


End file.
